He nodded at Hugo as he passed, “Have a safe float, partner.”
“Always mang,” said Hugo looking after for a moment. “Keep eet straight out ’dere, boss.”
William did not respond. He walked out of the warehouse and up the stairs, closing the door behind him with a conclusive thud.
Dorothy spoke anxiously as soon as he was gone, “Just a man with a bunch of bullets and nowhere to shoot ‘em, I guess.”
Her joke did a poor job of disguising the worry in her tone.
No one laughed. Tara reached and touched her arm.
Dax’s articulate voice warded off the awkward silence, “The situation is as follows, colleagues. In the last 24 hours, Joan has flagged 33 unique stream queries regarding Tara’s crash and the battle with the Coyotes. That’s obviously more than a ping per hour. William’s somber affect is no doubt a reflection of this.”
Tara added, “Let’s not forget my joyride last month. He’s still pissed about that too.”
Dax blinked, “Perhaps not your most pragmatic moment, darling.”
Hugo’s expression was bright and gracious, “Boss, eef anyone love not being, praag… preg-metri…”
“Hugo Velasquez, still pretending you can’t learn English,” said Dax. “Why is that, I wonder?”
“Because eet’s d’ Devil’s tongue.”
Tara smirked at Dorothy, “I’ll show you the Devil’s tongue.”
Dorothy mouthed, You’re so gross.
“Very well, Hugo.” injected Dax. “Pragmatic; a series of sensible decisions leading to a functional outcome.”
Hugo chuckled, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, “Yeah boss. ’Dat shit. Eet’s me een aces,” he winked. “So…” he said, smacking his hands together, “I’m gon prep d’ hovtruck for flight, review d’ Interstate spots weet Joan.” He nodded calmly at Tara, “See you een cinco, hermana.”
“Menos de cinco, cabrón.” She jerked her thumb towards SNOTRA, “Take fuzzy-feet there with you.”
Hugo whistled and SNOTRA trotted to the door, and they disappeared up the stairs. LOFN sighed dramatically, as if the demands made of her were just too great. The small cyborg went and lay beside THOR, resting her head on her big brother’s thick metal foreleg. The two of them touched noses briefly, settling in for the coming boredom of another long, empty warehouse night.
LOFN’s brown, holographic eyes followed the sound of the heavy freight elevator now returning to the warehouse from the barn level. In a matter of minutes, the humanoid warehouse bots had efficiently loaded the bed of the Ford 800 and were now returning to their docking stations. The bots’ industrial class hydraulics and micro-torsion gears wound down with a hiss, vidballs blinking from active-orange to dormant-black as they stepped into their charging docks to hibernate.
Tara threw her arms around Dax, quickly kissed him and said, “Unless Hugo and I beat our standing record, I’ll see you in about 4 hours and 19 minutes, love.”
Dax’s eyes were warm, “Indeed, my rose. Be safe.”
“Safe is my middle name.” She winked and turned to Dorothy, “And I’ll see you tomorrow, betty? 3:00 yoga, then we start drinking. I’m puttin’ on a red dress!”
“I’m putting on overalls,” said Dorothy, smiling in awe of her friend’s perpetual enthusiasm for a good time. “But I’ll be drinking, damn straight.”
After Tara was gone up the stairs and the door had shut, Dorothy’s expression grew earnest and she turned to Dax, “Is William all right? He’s been so far away these last few weeks.”
Dax put his hands on either side of Dorothy’s face. The gesture was now familiar, she did not mind. He was her big brother. She had come to trust him implicitly since that first, klutzy meeting at The Rowdy Pony long ago.
“Dorothy, your husband is a complex man.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
Dax dropped his hands back to his pockets, “The renewed public interest in our little piece of geography out here on County Hovroad 1500 has unsettled him. More attention, more CNED. More CNED, more deaths. The longer William is tethered to the cyborgs, the more he unconsciously absorbs some of their traits. Protectiveness, for example.”
She frowned, “Are you saying my husband is becoming a dog?”
“Old news, right?” Dax grinned. “Fear not, the tether bridge is stable and harmonious. These times of concern shall pass soon enough once the authorities forget about Tara again.”
Dorothy sighed and gave Dax a hug, “Thank you. I do feel better. Just promise you won’t let anything happen to him. All right?” she made herself smile.
Dax’s eyes drifted, landing on THOR’S massive shape, half-illuminated, half-veiled in shadow on the other side of the warehouse, “I won’t let anything happen.” He turned to her again, “I promise.”
“Thank you, Dax.”
“All very good,” he said merrily, gesturing towards the door, “Shall we?”
Dorothy leaned her head on his arm as the two of them walked slowly through the door to the stairs, “We shall.”
Once up in the barn Dax said, almost as an afterthought, “You girls have big plans tomorrow. Going to The Lady to hear a DJ?”
“Yes, DJ Lobe,” said Dorothy. “Tara wants to dance. The DJ’s files are pushed directly from the cloud, burned in real time to vinyl and mixed using thought-controlled tables. He’s only one of like 100 guys in the world who can DJ using nothing but a telekinetic headset. It’s pretty light.”
Dax kept his head lowered, a slight smile turning his mouth, “That is pretty… light. Perfect thoughts equal a perfect DJ set. Correct?”
Dorothy smiled, “You are correct, boss. It’s gonna be fond.”
“Well, I have every confidence the two of you will make it a night to remember.”
Chapter 3.5 – The Catalyst Reacts
Friday, October 15, 2082 1:20 pm – Twenty Two hours Before Event.
Spencer Hotshine burst through the door of Virgil’s apartment wearing a white janitorial onesie paired with yellow Chuck Taylors, hair flowing wild, “Floated fast as I could! What you got?” He scowled at the ceiling, “Yo dude… what’s that heavy noise?”
Virgil sighed and pulled on a t-shirt to go with his jeans, then continued studying a holographic chess set being projected on the coffee table in front of him.
He did not turn around, “I honestly can’t remember why we’re friends. It’s Brahms.”
Spencer dropped his polarized HUD goggles on the kitchen counter and ducked to the refrigerator. He grabbed a green liter can of Javaballer©.
“Who?”
Virgil turned and looked over the back of the couch, “Johannes Brahms, you neanderthal. Charles Bukowski’s favorite composer.”
Spencer stuck his tongue out and flapped his wrists around, “Oh…! Artsy shit, artsy shit! Whatever! So gay.” He threw his head back and took several gulps of Javaballer©, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “Sounds like dead cats screwing, bro, Dog!” His eyes widened and he produced an unnecessarily large purple holotab from a trouser pocket, “But duuuude… check this new app I just streamed. It’s called HoFyndr©!”
Virgil turned back to his chess board, moving one of the 3D peasant-pawns forward with a thought to his combud, “I don’t want to see it.”
Spencer exclaimed, “Oh no dude, you sooo do wanna see! It’s sooo light! Everyone’s rated by HoFactyr© on a 1 – 10 scale! Bigger the number, bigger the ho!” He tapped the surface of his holotab, projecting two twelve centimeter tall, scantily-clad girls who began to spin and and blow kisses, “Betties on the left got a straight up HoFactyr© of 6 – 10. Then these on the left are 1 – 5’s. You probably have to talk to those ones. Are you playing checkers?”
Virgil shook his head but smiled, “It’s chess. More artsy shit.”
Spencer stuck his tongue out and crossed his eyes, “Dog, whatevs! You gotta see these betts! This app is so tip-top!”
Virgil turned around.
He crinkled hi
s nose at the nearest holographic girl, “That one’s a total werewolf.”
“Yeah obvi, but at least with her, you know you’re gonna get laid.”
Virgil feigned interest in HoFyndr©, “You’re gonna get crabs again and have to go back to the bio-clinic for some salve.”
“Another advantage of working for the hospital, free salve,” said Spencer, sipping more Javaballer©.
Virgil frowned, “Bmod hospitals don’t cover citizen healthcare.”
“Yeah, but they got the salve for crabs. I can usually get one of the nurses to scan me out a sample.”
“There’s a free bio-clinic like two blocks from your house.”
“Every clinic’s free.”
Virgil winced, “That’s my point, idiot. Unless it’s a Bmod hospital.”
“Then the IRS pays for it.”
“Yeah,” said Virgil incredulously, “Then you have to pay the IRS back. Don’t get me started.”
“Fine,” said Spencer, collapsing the HoFyndr© holograms. “So what’s so fond? You pinged me, get over here asap / something I gotta show you.”
Virgil’s face lit up, “Oh yaya! Check it. This is light.” He reached down, opening his backpack on the floor and produced an old fashioned, faded and cracked leather holster containing a pistol. He slid out the polished barrel of a 2016 model Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum.
Spencer’s eyes grew enormous.
He brushed the shaggy blonde bangs from his eyes, “Duude! So fond! It works? Lemme see!”
Virgil twisted away, “No chance! I haven’t even shot it yet. And yes, it works. Untraceable antique, came loaded with bullets and everything.”
The midday sun shining through the window gleamed off the pistol’s silver barrel.
“Black guns are pricey. Where’d you get the digis?” asked Spencer, transfixed.
He picked up an e-joint sitting on the kitchen table and took a hit, exhaling the vapor so it flowed out the open window above the kitchen sink as he eyed the gun.
“I’ve been doing side work.”
Spencer made a face, “Like the side work that paid off your student loans?”
“I told you, I sold a screenplay to an anonymous buyer,” said Virgil, putting the gun back in its holster and returning it to the backpack.
Spencer crushed the empty can of Javaballer© and loped back to the fridge, producing another brand of janejava called GanjaJoe©, which he cracked and drank half of before belching profusely, “Yeah, anonymous. Just admit it, yo. You have a trust fund. Or you’re dealing booze.” He raised his eyebrows, “You gotta closet still I don’t know about!?”
Virgil blushed, “Check any closet you want, both of them. I told you I couldn’t show you the holoplay. The contract had exclusive rights, man.”
“Riiight… the contract. Dude, trust fund, or drug dealer. I’m gonna keep saying it! Who gets a job with an English degree? Come on! Where do you get the vodka?”
“Why do you care?”
“Just curious. What about those two masons of beer in your fridge?” asked Spencer, returning to his spot behind the couch.
Virgil had practiced saying it in the mirror, “Actually, I got that shit from old Smokey Mark, same as half the people on campus. Plus yeah, I got a huge trust fund.”
Spencer shrugged, “It’s no big deal if you do. I just want you to admit it. Some of us work a union job and still live at home.” His face contorted in pain, “But duude… you gotta kill this music. It sooo incredibly sucks dark sky.”
Virgil blinked, sending a signal to his combud and the music muted, “The music only sucks because you can’t understand it.”
“Whatever,” said Spencer.
“Whatever’s right.”
Spencer hit the vaporjoint again, exhaling, “I gotta get back to work soon. So what you gonna do with a gun anyway? You should have bought a particle pistol!”
“Too much money.”
“But what are you gonna do with it? You can’t even shoot it in the city.”
“I don’t know,” shrugged Virgil. “Protection.”
“Protection from what?”
Virgil looked at Spencer like he had just asked if the Earth was truly flat, “You know?! The government, cops… general aggressors.”
Spencer said, “General aggressors?”
Virgil kept quiet.
Spencer pounded the rest of his GanjaJoe© and then crushed the aluminum can, “Woot!” he grinned. “Well, what I do know is we’re gonna get drunk tonight! I also know that stash didn’t come from Smokey Mark, cause Smokey’s stuff looks like cloudy piss.”
Virgil frowned, “How would you know what vodka looks like anyway, Mr. Bmod Career Man?”
Spencer ambled back to the refrigerator, looking to see if anything new had materialized, then shut it with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ve been to the holoflix, bro. Just cause I drink now doesn’t mean I can’t work for the hospital. No one knows. Dog! ’Sides, they say Smokey Mark is really CNED.”
Virgil turned back to his chess set, “That’s such crap.”
Spencer scratched his ear thoughtfully, “You never can tell. Know what I decided?”
“What?”
“HoFynder© aside, the best place for me to meet another chick worth marrying? It’s at work. ’Cause you know betties in Bmod like to party, they gotta be cool! I need to have you write me a few more poetry lines like you did.”
“That is so stupid.” Virgil turned back around, “You met one chick there, who escaped with your Mustang and exposed your idiocy to the whole world.”
Spencer looked up defensively, “I shagged her.”
“You did not.”
Spencer gave up, puffing the vaporjoint and looking out the window, “Okay, I didn’t. But we made out. She let me go down on her.”
“Such bullshit.”
Spencer’s grin was broad and vapid, “My future wife, Tara Dean.” He snapped his fingers, “She was hotter than light!” he said, gazing dreamily at Virgil’s flickering chess set. “I’d do anything to see her. Including give her my hovcar again.”
Virgil was incredulous, “You told the reporters you blacked out.”
“I did black out, she drugged me with an airborne toxin! That’s the word. But I still remember her face, that long hair. She just looked at you and you lost control… she was so fond.”
Virgil shook off a thought, Sounds just like Virginia Rose… He turned on Spencer angrily, “I don’t want to talk about betts anymore.”
“Okay, don’t freak, yo!”
“It’s just that I’m practically married,” said Virgil. “This is Addy’s first night off diversion, no more random combud screens. Besides, she got a friend for you.”
Spencer rubbed his palms together, “Totally light. We’ll blend here, get wasted, then fly to that house party on 22nd? It’s the betty from community service, right?”
“Don’t bogart all the vapor,” said Virgil, snatching the e-joint. “Yeah, Addy is bringing her. That’s what we got two freakin’ liters of vodka for, remember?”
Spencer raised his eyebrows, “Maybe we can get them drunk enough to make out with each other.”
“As long as you don’t try and kiss Ady again, fine.”
Spencer re-snatched the e-joint, took one last hit and handed it back, “I know she’s your principal girl. So gay…”
“When you find the girl you want to marry, you’ll understand,” said Virgil.
“I DID find the girl I want to marry,” said Spencer with a far-off smile. “She stole my hovcar and disappeared into the night.”
Virgil shook his head, “You’re never gonna find that bett again, so you might as well get over it. Take the ads off Craigslist, move on.”
“Maybe, maybe…” said Spencer, looking at Virgil with a lingering curiosity. “Okay. I gotta blow. Be back at 8:00.”
“See ya,” said Virgil.
The young men bumped fists and Spencer burned out the door.
The apartment’
s default com voice said, “Guest; Hotshine, Spencer has departed.”
Virgil Benedict listened to Spencer’s footsteps traipsing down the old wooden apartment stairs while he continued vaping the e-joint, thinking. He watched his friend eagerly cross the hovstreet to his Mustang. The red hovcar spooled to life and the docking mounts retracted. Spencer floated out too quickly, cutting off another pilot and eliciting an angry honk, then was gone.
Their conversation had stirred something in Virgil.
Virginia Rose.
He suddenly wished desperately that he could see her, explain himself. Ever since the Interstate incident, Joan would only let him ping intel on CNED snitches remotely. No face to face. Talking to an AI was the only shred he had left of his life of crime. That, and the money that still magically appeared in his bank account every month. Virgil hadn’t seen William in six ages. Sometimes he was grateful. Other times, he yearned for a second chance! It wasn’t fair. They’d just put him out there on the hovway in a truck full of booze and said, For the record, in three minutes we’re getting docked by Sergeant Evil and his pack of robot Satan dogs.
Someday, Virgil would find a way to make them take him back. All of them. William, Mr. Dax Abner, the tiny, mute, African guy with the Felix, and Hugo, who looked like he might tell you a joke or cut your face off with a knife… and Virginia. Sweet Virginia Rose. Somehow, someway, he would find a way back to her good graces.
Virgil had heard Spencer’s description of the fugitive girl from the hospital a hundred times. Curiosity got the best of him.
He tapped his combud, “Bring up image of Lawrence, Kansas, Bmod fugitive, Tara Dean.”
The holograph appeared instantly. There she was. A cute girl, with a touch of Pacific Islander and a big bush of curly black hair. On the best night of her life she might be half as fine as Spencer Hotshine made her out to be. But it was the same girl Virgil remembered seeing in the holonews.
2080 was so long ago, he thought dreamily. I used to be so naive.
Friday, October 15, 2082 3:57 pm – Twenty Hours Before Event.
Dennis Slopes felt electricity shoot through the far reaches of his bones. He was close. He knitted his elongated nose and sneezed spasmodically, alarming Mrs. Kitters. The Felix leapt from her position in his lap, scattering a small pile of puzzle pieces with her tail.
Absorption: Phase 03 (The Eighteenth Shadow) Page 5